The room smelled of coffee, leather, and dust—like secrets clinging to old law offices.
I sat stiff, hands in my lap. Claire, beside me, dabbed fake tears like it was a scene from a movie. She was always good at crying when it counted.
The lawyer cleared his throat.
“To Claire, $500,000 in cash.”
She gasped, hand to heart.
“To Abigail—the farmhouse, with all contents and responsibilities.”
No gasps. Just silence. I stared at the books, jaw tight. A rotting roof and moldy walls—my reward for staying while Claire ran off to spas.
Later, at the farmhouse, I dropped my bag in the dusty entry. “This is mine now,” I whispered.
Cleaning out a closet, I found a hidden mirror—and behind it, a letter.
Abby, some things matter more than money. The house needs care. That’s why I chose you. Love, Grandma.
I shook my head—but folded the letter into my pocket.
Weeks later, a sleek black car pulled in. A man stepped out.
“I’m Henry. Your grandmother’s friend. I have an offer—one million dollars. Cash.”
I asked for time. By sunset, Claire was on my porch.
“You have to sell. We could split it.”
But I remembered Grandma’s words. I said nothing.
When Henry returned, I told him, “I’m not selling.”
He smiled. “Good. She believed in you.”
Turned out, the offer was a test. And now he wanted to build something with me. Slowly, we did.
We fixed the barn, planted vegetables, built a market. People came. Claire did too, uncertain at first, then helping with paint and plans.
We never talked about the money again.
The house was alive. The porch echoed with laughter. Sometimes I’d read Grandma’s letter. I didn’t cry anymore.
She had been right all along. Some things really are worth more than money.
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